Secrets in a Small Town

“Just do as I ask,” he demanded sharply, startling her. He collected himself to add more gently. “Please.”

All her life, she’d known her father as the kindest man on the planet. Yet, with the topic of Red Meadows between them, he seemed to harden. She didn’t know what to make of this version of her father. She glanced at her mother, who was chatting with another community member, and wondered what hid behind the laughter of the two people Piper trusted the most.

The thought scared her as much as the knowledge that she wouldn’t stop until she found out.

OWEN’S CELL PHONE BUZZED on his desk, set in motion by the vibration and he caught it before it danced right off the desk. He frowned when he saw it was Gretchen.

“What’s up, Gretch?” he asked, noting the late hour.

But instead of Gretchen, he heard the frightened quiver of seven-year-old Quinn on the other line. “O-wen,” she said in a tight whisper. “Can you come get me? I’m scared.”

He stood and grabbed his keys. “Sure, honey. Where’s your mama?” he asked, keeping his voice calm even when a bad feeling had started to crawl down his spine. “Everything okay?”

“Nooo,” she wailed, letting loose with a stream of babbling that he couldn’t hope to piece together until she stemmed the tears.

“Hold on, honey, I can’t understand you when you’re crying. Tell me what’s going on. Where’s your mama?” he asked again.

She sniffed back the tears and answered in a watery voice. “He took her.”

“He who?”

“Danny. And he was real mad. They were yelling and mama was crying,” she said, lowering her voice as if she were afraid that Danny might hear her. “And he hit her in her tummy. Mama was hurt real bad I think. And I’m s-scared that he’s going to come back and get me, too. Please hurry, Owen.”

“You got it, sweetheart. But I want you to do something for me until I get there, okay?”

“Uh-huh,” she agreed, listening.

“I want you to walk over to Mr. Peters’s house and wait for me there, okay?”

“But Mama said not to leave the house when she’s gone,” Quinn said, worried.

“That’s a very good rule and I’ll tell your mama that I said it was okay just this once.”

“Okay,” Quinn said, her tone solemn and trusting. She sniffed again. “Do you think Mama is going to be all right?”

“I hope so, sweetheart. Now, hang up and walk to Mr. Peters’s right now. I’m leaving the office and I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Quinn hung up and he pictured her running through the dark to the elderly neighbor’s house, a man Owen knew would keep her safe until he got there. As he ran to his truck, he dialed 9-1-1 and quickly told the dispatcher the situation.

His mind raced with the bare bits of information Quinn had given him but he tried not to let his imagination paint the worst picture possible. It wasn’t as though a seven-year-old was the best source of information but there was an ominous feeling at the base of his skull that he couldn’t shake.

A punch to the gut when a woman was in her third trimester… He didn’t know much about babies but he had a bad feeling that it spelled tragedy.

Damn it, Gretchen, I told you he was bad news.

IN A LIGHT DOZE AFTER SLUGGING down a half-pint of creamy mint-chocolate-chip ice cream, Piper nearly jumped at the shrill beep of her portable scanner as EMS crews rolled out on a call. She blinked and rubbed the sleep from her eyes to focus on the time. Geesh, nearly eleven o’clock at night. She listened to the call, contemplating just following up in the morning and dragging herself to bed, until she heard “possible kidnapping, scene unsecure” and suddenly all remnants of sleep evaporated. She hopped from the sofa and ran to her bedroom to tug on her jeans and sweatshirt. Within minutes, she was on her cell phone to dispatch getting the location of the incident and then she was in her car, barreling toward what she hoped was something big.

She pulled up to a residence flanked by deep forest growth in a neighborhood sparsely populated by older homes typically used as rentals. She recognized the address for a few disturbance calls she’d read in the police log, but nothing major. She didn’t normally chase after ambulances on a domestic-violence arrest unless it sounded particularly violent.

She exited her car and was two steps toward the incident commander when a familiar voice turned her around.

“Sniffing after blood?”

She stared at Owen, momentarily thrown off track by his presence at the scene. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“None of your business.”

Her mouth tightened but she didn’t have time to play games or trade witty banter. “Fine. Suit yourself. If you’re a witness to whatever went down here, I’ll just find out myself when I read the report.”

In the pale moonlight, the planes of his face seemed to harden and he looked ready to hurl a litany of curse words her way but as she tried to leave, he stopped her again.

“Listen, I need a favor,” he bit out, and she turned slowly, not quite sure she’d heard him correctly. Owen needed a favor from her? How deliciously fortuitous.

“What kind of favor?” she asked, more curious than anything else. “Nothing illegal I hope.”

“Don’t print this story,” he said.

“I don’t even know what the story is yet. Why don’t you tell me?”

He looked away, plainly wrestling with his desire to tell her to go screw herself and his need to play nice to gain a favor. Finally, he said in a low voice, “Okay. I don’t know what’s going on but my office manager seems to be missing. Her daughter—”

“The one in Mrs. Hamby’s class?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “She called me and said her mama’s boyfriend kicked her around a bit and then they took off.”

Ouch. Her demeanor softened when she imagined how scared the kid must’ve been to witness that kind of abuse, only to be left by herself in the middle of the night. Tragic. But a helluva story. And he wanted her to walk away? Impossible. “I have a job to do…I can’t just look the other way,” she said with a shrug.

“It must be nice to live in a world where nothing bad ever happens and you’ve never had to make a difficult choice in your life.”

Stung, she pulled back. “You don’t know my life, so I don’t see how you have the right to judge.”

“I know if you had an ounce of compassion gained from walking a mile in someone else’s shoes, you’d honor my request. There’s a scared little girl sitting in my truck, terrified that her mama is hurt or dead. All I’m asking is that you don’t make it worse for her by splashing her tragedy all over the front page of the local rag.”

“It’s not a rag. We’ve won several CNPA awards for coverage in our category,” she said stiffly, chafing silently at his angry rebuke. So she hadn’t suffered through an abominable childhood; it didn’t mean she couldn’t feel compassion. She chewed her lip, caught between the urge to get all the gritty details and forcing herself to walk away and proving him wrong about her. He didn’t realize what he was asking of her. Had Pulitzer-prize-winning New York Times investigative journalist David Barstow ever been asked to look the other way while a top story went untold? She shuddered under the weight of her indecision. She ought to tell him tough cookies but she couldn’t quite get the words to form. As much as she hated to admit it, she squirmed at the thought that he might actually despise her, which if he didn’t already he certainly would if she ran with this story. “It’s not really my choice,” she hedged, still searching for which way to turn. “I mean, the editor makes the determination of what will run or not…”

“Cut the crap. I know if you write this story, it’ll be splashed all over.”

“Yeah, and if I don’t splash it first, I’ll get scooped,” she muttered, hating the very idea. Top reporters didn’t allow themselves to get scooped. They were the ones who did the scooping and left everyone else panting after their sources. She glowered. “So what do I get if I allow this favor? And it’s a biggie, so don’t try and say something lame like your eternal gratitude.”

“I wouldn’t dream of assuming you would care about my gratitude,” he remarked dourly. “What do you want? And how do I know you’ll keep your word?”

“You’ll just have to trust me, I guess.”

“Fantastic.” He glanced back at the truck, where the little girl was watching the scene with wide eyes. Man, that would make a compelling picture. The headline could read Waiting for Mommy or Mommy Come Home. On autopilot, she started to reach for her camera until Owen made a sound in his throat that resembled a growl. A growl? Are you kidding me? It was ridiculous—and sexy. “Name your price and keep your trigger finger off that camera,” he instructed in a low voice.

She shivered but tried to put on a brave face, even scowling a bit. “Don’t make it sound so sordid. I’m not after your money or anything like that.” What did she want? Oh, that was easy, she realized with dizzying speed as the words tumbled out. “I want an interview—with you.”

AH, HELL. HE WANTED TO WALK away but the woman looked determined, and she wouldn’t settle for anything less than a little face time. It wouldn’t be so bad, he reasoned to himself, quickly weighing the pros and cons. She probably wanted to grill him about one of the projects she and her parents were opposing. “A half hour.”